Good Lives
by mrs tessa cobb
Summary: Promise that forever we will never get better at growing up and learning to lie.
1. Good Lives

_Trying to keep this from being a cliche. Tell me what you think. Everyone appreciates reviews. _

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_There is no floor 13, there's not even a second story  
you got one to tell and it's sad as hell  
promise that forever we will never get better at growing up and learning to lie_

"Angela Shepard, I swear to God!"

There was a slam, and the two girls sitting on the old patched comforter winced. They looked at each other, picking at fingernails and trying not to giggle nervously until the curvy, raven-haired beauty stormed back into the room, a scowl on her face.

"I hate when she yells," Angela said, flopping down on her back between her friends' crossed legs. "Especially when people are here."

"My mum never yells," Kristie said. "She just makes me feel real guilty. _I do everything for you, and this is how you say thank you,_" she mimicked. "Two-Bit never gets shit, but I get a trip."

"Darry just … gets scary." What Robin Curtis really wanted to say was, "at least y'all got a mum," but she didn't like anyone feeling sorry for her, and she didn't like the awkward silence either. Nobody ever knew what to say to a kid who didn't have parents anymore.

"She said y'all gotta be outta here before she gets home. She said we're gonna have a family dinner tonight." Angela snorted. "I ain't seen hide or hair of Curly since the weekend so I don't know what she's expecting…"

But Kristie and Robin put their shoes on anyway, and promised Angela they'd see her tomorrow, and left.

"Darry's working late tonight," Robin said when they got through the Shepard side of town and were in their own neighbourhood. The whole east side of Tulsa, Oklahoma was rough, but the land that the Shepard gang ran through was almost as bad as the River Kings' over to the north.

"I can't," Kristie said, already sensing where Robin was going. "Mum's finally home for once, she said she'd take me to the movies."

"Me and Ponyboy then," Robin said, and the girls giggled at the idea of either Ponyboy or Robin being able to make a meal that anyone would want to eat.

At the Mathews duplex, Kristie said goodbye, and Robin kept on her way alone. It was the height of summer, the first week of August, and there was already sweat pooling at the small of her back and beneath her bangs on her forehead. It was going to be a cold fall this year, she could tell. Indian summers started slow, but this heat wave had come on like a shot in the middle of July, and would be gone just as quickly by the time school started up again in September.

Robin dragged her feet, walking slow, kicking rocks. She stopped to admire a ladybug on the pockmarked sidewalk, pet a cat with a loose string collar, check out the tan line that broke her long thin legs apart at mid-thigh. She was only five foot five but had legs for days, with the same kind of build as her big brother Sodapop – thin, soft without fat. Where Soda had muscle though, Robin had a small chest and hips that no one could call childbearing even in their wildest imaginations.

A ten-minute walk turned into a half an hour, but it was still only Ponyboy at home when she got there. He was out on the dilapidated front porch, smoking a cigarette in the sunshine in his bare feet. He smiled when he saw her, and she smiled back – he didn't much like being alone.

"Darry called from work," he said when she was close enough to hear. "Said he'd be home at seven. An' Sodapop is workin' a double-shift."

"Fair enough," she said, stealing the last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the railing. She hated smoking filter, but no one would buy her a pack and she didn't much like stealing. Darrel caught her at it once, taking a pocketful of half-cent candy when she was twelve, and he'd got right up in her face and scared her so bad with stories of girls' homes and going out-of-state that she never dared to do it again.

"A good man don't want a girl who smokes," Ponyboy teased, following her inside. They let the screen door swing shut but left the oakwood open to tempt a nonexistent breeze.

"Aw, shut it," she said, aiming and missing a punch to his arm. But she was smiling.

"I made spaghetti."

"You warmed it up. Darry made it yesterday."

Ponyboy shrugged, sat down on the couch and grabbed the paper and pencil he'd been working with. There wasn't much on it yet, but it looked like another scenery picture. It would be good, like all the other things he drew and painted and coloured, but sometimes Robin wished he'd do a little more than just mountains and lakes and fields full of corn. She knew he did portraits sometimes, but nobody got to see those. Just like nobody got to read the short stories he scribbled either. They were all in the top drawer of his and Sodapop's desk in their bedroom, and even though it didn't lock, nobody opened it. They didn't have much, but they had each other – and that meant trusting each other, no matter what.

His dirty bowl was already in the sink, but the burner was on low, keeping it warm for her. She took a small serving herself, ate it at the kitchen table alone. She had started taking free dance classes at the community center, and even though her instructor said she was a natural talent, the other girls said she probably wouldn't get anywhere with it if she kept loading up on carbs and chocolate. They all had tight stomachs and lemon water.

Robin was turning off the burner and rinsing off her bowl when the telephone rang. She jumped; they didn't get a lot of phone calls on this side of town, but she scrambled to answer it anyway. Sometimes if Sodapop called from work, she could promise to pay him back – even though he never made her do it in the end – and he'd bring home a bottle of 7Up for her.

"I got it," Ponyboy called from the living room.

"Nope!" Robin yelled, sliding on sock feet over the linoleum floor. She jumped when she reached the living room carpet, catching Ponyboy around the waist. They fell to the floor with a loud thump in a struggling pile.

"Hey!" Ponyboy shouted as Robin scrambled over him, using her hand on his face for leverage. "Robby!" He sounded mad but he was smiling, so Robin stuck her tongue out at him before picking up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Angela. Are your brothers home?"

Robin glanced behind her. Ponyboy had gone; she could hear him in the bathroom down the hall, trying to fix the hair she'd mussed up in the fight.

"Just Ponyboy. What's up?"

"Can you come out? To the nightly double? You an' Kristie. I'll meet you there at eight, okay?"

Robin looked nervously over her shoulder again. Darry was due home before that, and Sodapop would probably show up too. If she left now she could hide out at Kristie's though. Darry rarely ever let her go out late if she wasn't already at someone else's house – even in the summer.

"Yeah. Have you called Kristie?"

"Nope."

"I'll get her," Robin said. "She said her mum was gonna be taking her out tonight, but …"

Angela finished her thought. "But when is Kristie's mum ever home when she says?"

Robin sighed. "Yeah. We'll see you at eight."

"'Kay." And the line went dead.

Robin slipped her feet back in her sneakers – Ponyboy's hand-me-downs from years ago, scuffed and old and dirty, but the rubber was still intact.

"I'm going to Kristie's, okay? Tell Darry!"

Ponyboy called back, "yeah fine," but she shut the door behind her before he finished. It was six o'clock now. That gave her and Kristie enough time to dig through Kristie's mum's makeup before they went out.

Long, light brown hair streamed out behind her when she started to run. She passed by the vacant lot, where Johnny and Dallas Winston were sitting, sharing a cigarette. Dallas wasn't frowning but he was swearing a blue streak, telling another story about his on again off again girlfriend, so Robin didn't stick around to say hello, just waving as she rushed by.

She avoided going past the DX gasoline station, instead going through the tall grass of the park, circling around the fountain once before slowing her pace and walking the last two minutes to Kristie Mathew's house.

Like she and Angela predicted, it was just Kristie home alone when Robin got there.

"She went to the bar after work," Kristie grumbled, inviting Robin in. "But she got a new red lipstick."

**x x x**

At ten past eight, Kristie and Robin met Angela at the back fence of the drive-in. The sun was sitting on the horizon, but its dull watery light was nothing compared to the glow of the movie screen beyond the chain link. The air was still warm, muggy, wrapped around their skin like a blanket.

They snuck in. It would have been easy to pay the admittance fee but it was easier to pull up the broken bottom of the fence and slither through on their stomachs. That's what most of the greasers did; the ones who paid were the ones trying to impress a date or who were on probation and didn't need something little like this to put them over the edge and back in jail.

"George is here tonight," Angela explained once they were through. She brushed off her skirt and teased her hair with her fingers. When her friends only gave her empty looks back, she cocked an eyebrow. "George Campbell?"

"Oh," Kristie said, then wrinkled her nose. "The senior? From the high school?"

"Yeah!" Angela said happily, now that someone understood. "The one who came to Ruby's birthday last week."

"He's got a flat nose," Robin said.

"Dallas Winston has a towhead, but you still wanted him to play spin-the-bottle," Angela shot. Robin shut her mouth, and became busy with a stubborn blade of grass on her blouse.

Without another word Angela marched off. Robin and Kristie followed behind. It was something they had done many times for her, and that she would do for them if either of them ever got the guts to try and hit on a cute boy. It made Angela look popular – her two best friends at her side, never alone when she didn't want to be – but approachable, because they weren't all in a giggling group that no one could penetrate.

At least, that's how Angela explained it.

George Campbell was sitting at the back row with his curly brown hair slicked back with too much hair grease. Instead of looking tuff he just looked oily, but he shone with confidence, and Robin couldn't deny that the smile he shot Angela when he noticed her was a ten out of ten.

"Shepard!" he called, waving them over. "Your brothers lettin' you out this late?"

"No one _lets me_ do anything, I do what I want," she replied with a sultry smile. She sat down in the seat next to him gracefully. "What's in the cup?"

"Little bit of everything," he said, handing it to her. Then he turned to one of his buddies. "Three Cokes, huh?"

The guy scrambled off to get them.

Angela shot her friends an impatient look, so they sat down beside her and they took the cups of Coke mixed with the mystery drink in the glass bottle when they were passed down. It tasted disgusting and burned going down, but it settled well in the stomach.

"This smells like the crap Two-Bit drinks," Kristie said and put her cup aside. Robin kept a hold of hers, starting out with slow sips; she finished even before Angela did, and someone passed her a new cup, and more drink, and who really cared what movie was playing tonight anyway because they didn't pay and George's blonde friend was actually kind of cute.

**x x x**

It was cold now. The wind was blowing, and the tears streaking her face felt like they were freezing on her cheeks. It was hours ago that she lost Angela, and Kristie had gone home before she even finished her first drink.

The back of the car. Leather seats. Not much room. He turned the heater on for her but her skin was still covered with goosebumps. Fingers traced her collar bone. She giggled.

_No_. She said no. She wanted to keep her pants on. It was cold.

_I'll turn the heat up._

No.

Her shorts wouldn't button anymore. The button was gone. She grabbed them by the belt loop every few steps and pulled them up over her hips again. They zipped, but they were too big. Pulled them up over her hips again.

Down her legs. On the floor of the car. _It's warmer now, see?_ Shoes off.

Where'd she leave her shoes?

"Hey, kid! You're goin' in the wrong direction."

Robin jumped, looked around with wide eyes. Eyes pink from crying. It was a car. She flinched – but it wasn't a mustang. It wasn't a black mustang with white racing stripes. It was a T-Bird, and the blonde in the driver's seat was taller, more muscular.

"Hey, Curtis!" Dallas pulled the car over when she didn't stop walking and hopped out. "Robin! Hey, kid, hold on."

He caught up to her easy, grabbed her arm. He didn't protest when she pulled away because at least she stopped walking. And in her head she thanked him for not asking her what was wrong or what happened.

"Get in the car, come on kid. Darry's goin' crazy over you bein' gone."

Darry. What time was it? Did Ponyboy tell him where she'd gone?

The T-Bird was chilly. All the windows were down. The heater was off. The clock said three in the morning. Was it really three in the morning?

Robin wiped her eyes. Mascara streaked on her fingers, and she wiped it on the car seats. This was Buck Merrill's T-Bird. Dally borrowed it a lot lately, since he won big in a rodeo for Buck and the guy was feeling charitable towards him. You had to take advantage of Buck's charity while it lasted because it didn't last long.

Last long. _It won't hurt. I'll be gentle._

It wasn't gentle. It lasted long.

This time she let Dallas touch her. He helped her out of the car, but let go of her the minute they reached the front porch. She hitched her shorts up again. Dallas didn't do many nice things for people. He did nice things for Johnny, but only sometimes. He did nice things for her, but only for the gang. His gang. She wasn't part of their gang, but they were all brothers and brothers looked out for each other. Even if that meant rounding up stray little sisters.

Darry's furious look didn't last longer than it took Robin to get through the door. Then he pulled Dallas aside, into the kitchen, and Sodapop took his place.

"Robby? Hey, whoa, what's going on?"

Ponyboy was in bed. She could see the lamplight in the hallway; he was reading, probably. He was worried about her but Darry would have sent him to bed. He shared a bedroom with Sodapop now, instead of sharing hers.

Finally the tears started coming again. They burst from her eyes, and Sodapop rushed her up into a hug before she could even kick off her shoes. He whispered things in her ear, things that meant nothing but he'd been doing it for so long, ever since she was born by the way Darry told it.

"Let's get you to bed, baby," he said.

"No," she mumbled through tears. "No, no, no…"

_No._

_Don't be a goddamn tease._

_Don't, I said don't._

_You don't mean that. You wouldn't'a come with me if you meant it._

Sodapop picked her up. He was stronger than he looked, and she weighed less than he'd imagined. Ponyboy looked out the bedroom door questioningly, but her eyes were drooping shut and Sodapop shook his head and mouthed, "tomorrow." He took her into Darry's room and dropped her on Darry's bed and she couldn't even remember watching him walk back out, she was so tired.


	2. Somewhere Only We Know

_Thank you to the two people so far who have reviewed! I always love it :) I hope this chapter is just as good and doesn't disappoint anyone haha._

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_And if you have a minute why don't we go  
talk about it somewhere only we know_

She woke up sweaty, in her underwear and the blouse from yesterday. Panic set it; she jolted upright, pushed her messy hair out of her eyes, looked around. Light brown walls, open closet doors, and a set of dark red blinds that only barely kept out the sun – familiar surroundings, the ones she'd grown up in.

This was Darry's room. And she could feel her shorts beneath her toes, the ones with the broken button. She reached down beneath the blanket to pull them up, her heart not drumming nearly as fast or hard against her chest.

Robin tip-toed down the hall, stopping only to throw the shorts in the bathroom garbage can, all the way to her bedroom. The walls were still blue from when it was Ponyboy's nursery. Now it was all hers, since Darry took their parents' old room and Ponyboy moved in with Soda.

The house was quiet. No radio playing, no TV, no one roughhousing or cooking breakfast or yelling at Soda for cheating at cards. Most likely Darrel was at work – today was his first day with a new construction crew – and Sodapop was either out with Steve, or behind the counter and pumps of the DX gasoline station. Ponyboy would be at the movie house if he wasn't somewhere with Johnny.

The clock in the kitchen said it was twelve o'clock. How had they let her sleep so late? There were blankets bunched up on the couch, probably Dallas. Maybe Johnny.

On the table was cold toast with butter – the way she liked it – and a note that said she and Darry needed to have a talk when he got home from work. _Fat chance_ she thought while she munched toast, but it was all false bravado. Darry could get anything out of her, with just a cup of hot water and an unwavering stare.

This – it was different. Fingers on her arms, her stomach, her thighs. His body. His sweat. Hers. She shivered. How was she supposed to tell _anyone_ that? That was the kind of secret you took to the grave.

Just the memory of him made her want to puke. From the hall closet she grabbed a bath towel, and spent the next hour with the bathroom door locked and the bathtub full, a bar of soap and bottle of shampoo in hand.

Robin was sitting on the couch in a flowing paisley-print mini dress when Two-Bit Mathews strolled through the door, bringing with him a hot rush of air from outside. Behind him followed Steve, who was wearing a denim jacket even though it was about two hundred degrees.

"Oh!" Two-Bit shouted with a grin, eyebrows raised. "You're home! See, we were just hopin' to borrow your TV while you were out." Then he laughed, because Two-Bit thought that everything he said was a riot. "There anymore cake left?"

Robin shrugged. "Go look."

Steve sat down in the armchair and leaned back. At first he just looked around, then he looked at the blank television screen, and finally at Robin and the book in her hand. He snorted.

"Lord of the Flies. Who actually reads this shit?"

"It's for school," Robin said. She didn't want to look back at him. Somehow he would know. If she looked at him he would know exactly what happened last night. He couldn't know. "Summer reading list."

"What's it about?" He didn't sound curious.

"Dunno. I only just started."

That stumped him for a minute, and in silence they listened to Two-Bit pulling the cake platter out of the fridge. Then he got up and sat down on the opposite edge of the couch, and this time she had to look up at him. Her dark hair fell in dark-wet waves around her cheeks. Maybe it was cute, like the girls in the movies when they looked through their eyelashes. Then she thought of the movie last night, and decided not to think about girls in movies anymore.

"What the hell happened last night, kid?" he asked seriously.

To be entirely truthful, she hadn't expected him to know anything about it. She thought about it, sure, who didn't wonder how much their eyes could give away? Then her shoulders slumped. He'd seen Sodapop today, and Soda told Steve everything because they were as close as brothers. And Steve Randle was closer to a brother to her than any of the other gang – even Two-Bit, who was her best friend's big brother.

"You talked to Soda," she said to the ceiling when he didn't drop his stare. His mouth was set, his face all hard lines and concentration. Sodapop was a great storyteller. He probably hadn't left out a single detail.

Robin had only seen Steve angry once, and it had been scary. She was ten, and had screamed when he yelled and run to hide under the covers. He hadn't even noticed she was there when he raised his hand to his girl, and afterwards Darry had had to explain that no one was supposed to hit anyone, and that Steve just got angry sometimes because he had it even worse at home than they did.

"He was hitting Evie," she'd said. "He's mean."

And Darry had laughed and said that he guessed she understood better than he'd expected. But she never saw him do it again, and she'd learned to forgive him. He really did have it bad at home – almost as bad as Johnny, but at least Steve's dad apologized sometimes.

"Hey, kid!" Steve snapped his fingers in front of her face. She jerked.

Two-Bit clinked a glass in the kitchen.

"Uh," Robin started, not entirely sure why she was telling Steve the truth instead of a silly story, but not really wanting to stop. It wasn't making her feel better, but it wasn't making it hurt worse either. "He said his name was Greg. Drove … drove a Mustang with stripes. Wanted to show me it. Leather seats …"

Steve stood up. His face had gone dark, his eyes shadowed and dangerous. Instinctively Robin shrank back against the couch.

"Hey, where ya goin'?" Two-Bit asked, coming back into the living room with his glass of milk and plate full of almost half the cake.

Steve didn't answer. Two-Bit watched through the screen door as he hustled down the sidewalk in a cloud of fury. Then he turned back to Robin.

"Where's he goin'?"

Robin just shrugged.

**x x x**

Two-Bit left not twenty minutes later. Robin tagged along, but left once she realized he wasn't heading for his house.

When Kristie opened the door, her hair was still a wild mess of curls and her makeup was smeared. It was clear she had just woken up, still in pyjamas, dark circles under her eyes. She peered out at the sun and flinched, stepping back to let Robin into the house. "Christ, what time is it?"

"One thirty or so."

"Where'd you disappear to last night?" Kristie asked once she'd washed her face and made a bowl of cereal. "Angela left with George maybe ten minutes after. I ended up with six more drinks an' had to walk home!"

"I went to see the guy's car," Robin said. "Then I walked home too. I felt sick."

Kristie nodded, believing every word. She had no reason not to. They'd made a pact in fifth grade – Angela too – that they would never lie to each other or keep secrets between the three. And so far, no one had been caught breaking it.

After breakfast Kristie got dressed, and the girls headed over to Angela Shepard's house. Midday, the Shepard gang's turf looked worse for wear but much safer. Anyone hanging around the streets was bathed in sunlight, and a lot of them knew the girls by sight – had worked with Darry, played billiards with Two-Bit, or watched them come to and from Angela's every other day since they were old enough to walk without adults. Greasers didn't jump greasers just for the fun of it, and anyone who would beat a thirteen year old girl probably wouldn't make it past sundown once her brother got wind of it.

"God," Kristie mumbled when they pushed open the weather-beaten white fence. The Shepard's' yard was overgrown with grass and weeds, and the cement front steps were almost crumbled away entirely at the edges. Everyone was too busy here to do yard work – Tim running an entire outfit, their parents working or drinking or sleeping with someone else – and Curly just didn't care.

Curly Shepard met them at the screen door. "What d'y'all want?"

Robin gave him a _duh_ look. "To see Angela. Is she home?"

"Nope," he said, but he pushed the door out and let them in anyway.

The front door opened straight into the living room. Tim Shepard – tall, lean, scarred and hard – was sitting in an armchair, playing with a switchblade. Dallas Winston was there too, sitting beside a man Robin had never seen before, who was on the telephone.

Kristie walked right past them, but Robin gave Dallas a small wave. He nodded his head back. The Curtis house had been home base since day one, where Kristie hardly saw anyone but Two-Bit and Robin's brothers, and liked it that way. She said she wasn't interested in boys more than a year older than her.

Tim Shepard, however, motioned her over. She froze, and Kristie stopped too, a questioning look on her face. Robin looked back and raised her eyebrows, which made Kristie shrug and say, "I'll be in Angela's room, okay?"

Robin turned back and walked slowly towards the armchair. She stayed a good few feet back, not really sure where she was supposed to go.

Tim studied her for a second, before speaking. "What's –"

"Robin," Dallas cut in. Slowly she dragged her eyes from Tim's demanding form to Dallas' slouch. He was holding the telephone receiver in his hand now, the cord stretched as far as it could go. He wiggled it at her. When she didn't move, he said, "Take it, kid. Jesus."

That snapped her out of it, and she walked over and took the phone out of Dally's hand.

"Yeah?"

"Robby." It was Sodapop. "I've been callin' all over for ya."

"I only have two friends," she said, which made him laugh.

"You oughta head back home soon, alright? Darry'll be home for dinner. You, Dar, and Pony."

Robin looked around for a clock. She had lots of time before five. "Yeah, I'll be. You working late?"

Sodapop hesitated, then laughed again. "Somethin' like that."

**x x x**

For once, Robin came home on time. She, Angela, and Kristie spent the afternoon in the backyard with a Pepsi apiece and a bottle of crimson nail polish that a boy had given Angela for a gift – probably lifted from the department store. The sun was hot on their faces and Angela was telling them all about what happened with George.

"He took me to his house," she said, but she spoke low. The living room window was open and nobody wanted to see Tim's face if he heard what his sister was up to. "He has a _motorcycle_. He's so hot."

"Did you guys…?" Kristie trailed off.

Angela giggled. "Yeah, of course!" Then she rounded on Robin, who was lying on her back with her hands on her stomach while her fingernails dried. "Where did you and Greg go so fast?"

Robin's stomach clenched under her skin. "Uh –"

"To see his car," Kristie said, and winked.

Angela gasped. "No, you didn't! Did you give him your virginity?"

"No." She was pulling herself up off the ground now. "Look, I gotta get home for dinner, alright? I'll call tomorrow."

Before the streetlights even flickered on, Robin was in the door, at the table, shoes off, having baked chicken and garlic broccoli with Ponyboy and Darry.

"You wanna go for a walk after dinner, Rob?" Darry asked casually, peeling the skin off the thigh on his plate. "Stop at Winnie's for a cup of cocoa?"

She knew this was coming, it was only a matter of time. "Is Ponyboy gonna come?"

"Nah," Ponyboy said. Robin was pretty sure he didn't even know what was going on, but him and Darry had been at odds lately. There was a lot of fights and some raised voices, and sometimes Darry would leave for work before anyone even had a chance to wake up after one of their disagreements.

Pony looked at her with a lazy grin. They didn't always get along – they were too close in age for that, too different – but it wasn't all bad. "I'll draw you a picture when you're gone. What do you want?"

She wanted to smirk back and say, "Dallas Winston," but Darry would have a fit. It was obvious she admired him, but so did half the other girls in her class alone. So she said, "Draw me, Pony. Draw me and you."

Unexpectedly he said, "yeah, sure."

So she smiled, and said yes to Darry. But it didn't mean she was going to tell him. She was going to do everything in her power not to.

It was cool inside Winnie's Diner. They had the air conditioner blasting, and goosebumps erupted on Robin's skin when they sat down. A pretty twenty-something redhead took their order, leaning towards Darry a lot, smiling big. The girls all loved Darry, because he was tall and muscular and he didn't put a lot of oil in his hair. Plus he didn't talk like everyone else, but he had other things to worry about. He had three kids to raise – kids that weren't even his – and two jobs to hold down. Girls were taking a backseat.

"At least until you and Pony are older," Sodapop explained in June, when Robin asked why everyone else was going on dates but him. "Right now he's gonna worry 'bout you guys."

Darry just got a cup of water, but Robin got hot chocolate in a big white mug. The waitress even topped it with whipped cream for free, and when she brought it over Darrel found a free second to thank her with his winning, straight-toothed smile. He really liked people who did nice things on this side of town, because you didn't see it too often.

Robin sipped slowly. Darry was waiting for her to loosen up before he started questioning her. But instead, the bell over the door jingled again, and Robin looked over to see Two-Bit and Kristie coming in. Excitedly she waved. If there was company, she wouldn't have to talk about a damn thing.

"Robby!" Kristie rushed over, and Two-Bit followed in her wake. She plopped herself down beside Darry – she'd always liked him, saying she wished she had a father figure like that instead of her mum and all the boyfriends she brought home that were great to start and terrible by the end – and Robin scooted over to let Two-Bit take a seat beside her.

Darrel rolled his eyes, but he wasn't really too mad. She lived with him – it wasn't like she could avoid him forever.

Robin knew that too.


	3. Home

_Aaah! thank you so much to my reviewers! I love you all so much :) This chapter went in an entirely different direction than I intended when I started writing it, so I hope it isn't a total trainwreck._

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_Know my place, on my own, no poison in my bones  
on my own, this is where I build my home_

The picture wasn't finished by the time Darrel and Robin came home. Sodapop wasn't around yet either, nor was he home when she got up at ten o'clock in the afternoon to another shouting match between Pony and Darry.

Robin walked softly out of the bedroom, sneaking down the hall to the bathroom and locking the door behind her. She'd take a long shower, brush her teeth, maybe French braid her hair. By then the yelling would probably have stopped because Ponyboy ran out or Darry left for work maybe, and she could get breakfast.

"Hey, kiddo."

It was Sodapop who was sitting in the kitchen with a slice of chocolate cake when Robin came in barefoot, her braid dripping water down the back of her white tank top.

"Where'd Darry and Ponyboy go?" she asked, pouring a bowl of cereal with milk and taking it to the table.

"Work, out, I dunno," he said with a smile. Sodapop said just about everything with a smile, but this time it didn't last long. "I had a talk with Steve last night, hey."

_Oh. That_. She'd been meaning to forget that, push it to the back of her mind where she'd never have to look at it again, just pretend it never happened. Things like that didn't happen to flat-chested little junior high kids and it hadn't hadn't _had not_ happened to her.

Robin pushed the bowl of cereal away. Sodapop put down his fork.

"I don't wanna talk about it, Soda." _I just wanna forget it_.

Sodapop looked almost … frustrated. His brow creased. "You can't just not talk about it, Robby. I mean, what if he'd … what if he'd hurt ya? What if he'd gotten … further."

She could cut the discomfort in his voice with a knife. No one wanted to talk about things like that, say those words, to their little sister. Even at the best of times. It was Darry who had to give her "the talk" when her period started, and he'd almost started sweating he felt so awkward and unsure. Finally she'd just told him she understood, and gone to Kristie's mother instead, because Kristie had gotten hers a few months before.

Robin cleared her throat. Maybe she should tell. Then everyone could just get over it and drop it.

"He did." She leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms. "Get further."

Sodapop leaned back too, blown away. Apparently Steve hadn't entirely understood her.

"That's rape, Rob."

_Rape_. What an ugly word. She didn't want to think about that word, connect it to what had happened to her. What happened to her – well she'd probably deserved it. Like Greg said, she had come to his car with him, hadn't she? She'd kissed him willingly. She was just a tease and she got what she deserved.

"No, it's not like that, okay Soda? Just forget it."

"Yeah. Forget it." Sodapop knew how to pick his battles, but something told Robin that he didn't really mean it at all.

**x x x**

Dance ended at three-thirty. Robin pulled her leotard off in front of the mirror in the change room with the other girls, forehead damp with sweat, face flushed. She replaced it with the tank top and cut-off denim shorts from earlier, but not before Colette Drapeau – who came from France when she was six, and brought it up at least six times a lesson – giggled and asked, "Has your stomach always been that big, Robin?"

Robin pulled her shirt up and faced the mirror sideways. Maybe there was a little bump by her bellybutton, but it wasn't really that big, was it? She pinched it with her thumb and forefinger – maybe a quarter of an inch? But she could still hear Colette and her friends cackling from the lobby, so she pulled down her shirt, grabbed her backpack, and left through the fire doors instead.

When she rounded the building, Robin met Kristie and Angela waiting for her in the parking lot. They were with Angela's brother Curly in an ugly sedan he'd probably stolen, because Curly Shepard wasn't even old enough to have a license yet.

"Hey!" Angela waved her over. "We're going to Jay's."

Jay's was on The Ribbon, which was somewhere Robin was explicitly told never to go to. It was a rough place – the toughest hoods and the boldest Socs. The Ribbon was a stretch of restaurants and small shops, known for drag races and pushers and there was a fight there at least every day. Last week someone was shot – that was when Darry put his foot down and said that under no circumstance was Robin to go.

"I gotta go home," Robin hedged. Angela never took "Darry said no" as an answer. Her parents and Tim told her about six things not to do every day by breakfast, but she still did them all, and she rarely got caught at it either. "I'm all … sweaty."

"We'll drive you," Kristie offered helpfully.

Robin shrugged. "Sure. Fine." She slid into the backseat beside Angela. Kristie was up front, riding shotgun with Curly, who looked exactly like his big brother except four inches shorter and a straighter nose. Curly was rough, but he wasn't battle-scarred like his brother – not yet.

"Hey," Robin leaned over to whisper, "is there … something going on between those two?" She nudged her head towards the front seat.

Angela rolled her eyes. "I hope not."

The house was empty when Robin went in to take her second shower of the day. She brushed her teeth, put on her paisley summer dress, left her hair to dry long and loosely wavey. On a scrap of paper she scribbled a note that she was out with Kristie and Angela, and left it on the kitchen table for whoever came home first. Then she was out the door, back into the sedan, and they were on their way.

Jay's wasn't crazy when they got there. A few couples sat here and there – Kristie waved at a girl with a round waist who was cuddled up with a beefy greaser Robin recognized from gym class last year. Other than that it was mostly all twenty-somethings on late lunch breaks from work, or giggling girls from the senior high.

They got a booth – Angela and Robin on one side, Kristie and Curly on the other – and Robin ordered a lemon water.

"No 7Up?" Kristie asked.

"You're skinny as a fuckin' stick, girl," Angela said, poking her in the ribs. "You should be gettin' a milkshake and fries."

Robin wrapped an arm protectively around her waist. "I'm not really hungry or anything."

Curly nodded. "No one wants a big girl. Loose the gut, kid."

_The gut_. "I don't have a _gut_."

The middle Shepard shrugged, stuffed his burger in his mouth.

"You ain't fat, Robby," Kristie said, shooting Curly a dirty look. "There's hardly anything to you."

Robin wasn't really sure which one was better.

There was a loud smash – everyone in the diner screamed, yelled, ducked, looked around wildly. One of the windows had shattered in, and a bullet was lodged in the wall on the other side. Three more gunshots sounded outside.

"Fuck!" Curly yelled, grabbing hold of Kristie's wrist and pulling her towards the door. He motioned for Angela and Robin to follow behind, which they did. In her mind Robin didn't think that going outside, where the shooting was happening, was a good idea, but Curly had a lot more street smarts than she did.

The scene outside looked wrong in the bright, blue-tinted summer evening. There were cars parked all along the street, people running towards them, or into buildings; away from the small crowd forming a circle in the middle of the road up in front of the derelict, going-out-of-business arcade.

They all pushed through the scattering bodies. It was with uncomfortable ease that Robin recognized the backs of some of the men in the circle; Dallas Winston's white-blonde hair, Tim Shepard's tall, catlike stance, even Steve and Sodapop were there, although they were hanging back pretty far. Watching – not getting involved.

"Soda!" Robin screamed when two more shots came from the center of the circle. She pushed past her friends to stumble forward, grabbing her big brother by the arm. He jumped, surprised, not expecting her to be there. She wasn't supposed to be. Darrel was going to kill her if Sodapop snitched – but she read something in his face that told her he wasn't going to say a word if she didn't.

Instead he hugged her to his chest. She managed to squirm around so her back was facing him, but he still never let her go. From here Robin could see inside the circle, could see faces and hands and clothes with blood splatters on them. And on the pavement, not moving, lying in puddles of blood soaking into the cracks of the asphalt, were Greg and his buddy George.

Robin felt her stomach drop down to her toes.

Someone burst through the other side of the circle. He was a big guy, in his mid-twenties, with fists clenched. "You're fuckin' dead, Shepard, you hear me?" He pointed to Tim, then to everyone standing around him. "You, an' your gang, an' anyone you've even fuckin' talked to in your life. You're all fuckin' dead."

No one called the cops on the east side. You settled your own scores.

Sodapop said, "River Kings. Those two were someone's kid brothers over there."

"Why'd they get shot?"

The crowd was dispersing now. Guns were being hidden in cars and people were peeling out of there. Others hoofed it, calling out to each other, going this way and that before the police came. Just because no one around here was going to do it didn't mean someone peeking out a storefront window wasn't going to try and protect their business.

Sodapop pushed Robin forward. "Get goin'. Go home, go straight home."

"Soda, why'd they get shot?" she repeated, but Sodapop gave her one more hard shove, then turned around to catch up with Steve who was hot-wiring a rust bucket a quarter mile down the line.

She couldn't see Angela or Kristie anywhere. Curly was waving her over to his car but she ignored him, choosing instead to take it on foot. She started towards the highway, but skipped over down an alleyway when the red and blue flashing lights peaked over the horizon.

Robin weaved in and out of alleys and empty streets until the sun went down. She was still on the east side, she knew that much, but where? It was nowhere near her street, or even Angela's. The houses were more ramshackle than she'd ever seen before; dogs chained up barked loudly when she walked by, and men on front porches called out to her, whistling, inviting her inside for a drink. She ignored them, kept her head down and arms crossed over her chest.

Darry was going to _kill_ her.

Kill. She couldn't get the image of the boys on the ground out of her head. Had they killed the boys because of _her_? Had Sodapop told, and everyone ganged up on them over a little physical misunderstanding?

Robin jerked her head up when headlights flared in her face. A shiny red 1961 Impala SS 409 was rolling up slowly on the wrong side of the road – her side of the road. At first she froze, unable to move a muscle, barely even breathing – that was a new, expensive car. That was the kind of car that Socs drove, and although they didn't make a habit of jumping greaser girls, Robin wouldn't be surprised if they made a habit out of equally sinister things.

It pulled to a stop beside her, and threw open the passenger side door. Nervously she peered inside. The man in the front seat offering her a ride hardly made her relax, but she got in, because it was either that or wander around all night until somebody killed her.

_Kill_.

"You saw," Tim Shepard said lazily, not looking at her, just pulling the car back onto the right side of the road.

"Was that my fault?" Robin asked, not bothering to beat around the bush. She was too tired – mentally too – to play around. She just wanted a hot bath, a long sleep, and something to fry her brain of the memories from the past few days.

Tim snorted. "Nah. Maybe you were the trigger, but there's been shit goin' on since you were in diapers, kid."

"So everyone knows."

"No one knows shit," Tim said firmly. "Nothin' happened."

She liked that. Greg was dead – so nothing happened.

Tim played the radio and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way to her house. They didn't talk. She tried to study him but had to look away quick every time his eyes wandered over to her. He was better looking than Dallas – better looking than most guys, really – but he was cold. He was empty inside, she was sure of it. Maybe she hadn't seen it, and guns changed hands a lot in a circle of men all trying to run, but it was him who had shot them. Both of them. She just felt it.

"Thanks for the ride."

"See ya around."

Sodapop was waiting for her inside, along with Steve and Darry. The light was on in Ponyboy's room.

"Was that Tim Shepard?" Soda asked, peering out the window.

"Yeah. He gave me a lift home. I got lost."

"Got lost doing what, Robin Grace Curtis?" Darrel stood up off the couch. His face was stone, a carving of anger. "How many damn times have I told you to stay off the Ribbon, Robin?"

"I … I was with Kristie!"

"I don't care who you were with!" he roared. "You could have gotten killed out there! And getting a ride home from _Tim Shepard_?"

"He helped us," Sodapop cut in. "He's always been on our side."

"He's a thug," Darrel retorted. "Just like all y'all are going to be if you keep this shit up. Keep going on the path you're going, Robin, and you'll end up just like everyone else. You wanna be like Kristie's mother, Robin? Two kids, no husband, barely making ends meet because you started fucking around young and –"

"Darrel," Soda said, soft but loud. "This ain't about Mrs Mathews …"

"You're right, it ain't. It's about Robin, and this shit road she's going down. Hanging out with Angela Shepard, going to the Ribbon, getting in cars with Tim Shepard. He shot two goddamn kids tonight, two boys who did what?" Darrel was shouting, his voice loud and deep and thrumming in Robin's bones. "Kids of some River Kings, who ain't been to our side of town for years. And now Shepard's brought all this shit back down over two kids who ain't shit."

She'd never heard Darry swear so much. Never heard him let go like that, so angry that he was shaking, cussing, messing up the English he perfected in anticipation for leaving this life and going on to college, a place where greaser and social didn't mean a thing. He looked so mad Robin was scared he was going to hit her.

"They done a lot, Darry," Steve interjected, the first time he'd spoken since Robin got home. "They were hangin' 'round the nightly double past couple of nights, gettin' into fights…"

"Blowing off steam, like kids do." Suddenly he rounded back on Robin, grabbing her by the arms. "You stay the hell away from there, do you understand? From the Ribbon, from Angela Shepard – from _any_ Shepard. You go to dance and Kristie's or you stay home!"

Fingers on her arms, squeezing, tight, bruises; fingers on her thighs and her stomach and hips and pulling and pushing and – her fist connected. Darry let go of her arms, his eyes wide. Her knuckles were red, already beginning to swell. Darry's jaw was rose.

Before he could do or say a thing – before anyone could – Robin turned around and bolted out the front door, down the steps, across the front yard; by the time Sodapop got to the door to dash after her, she was already through the vacant lot with no signs of stopping.

**x x x**

It was one o'clock in the morning when Robin saw the Impala again. It was parked in the driveway of Angela's house. Out front on the road was the car Curly had taken. Their parents' vehicle was gone, which meant that someone was working the night shift and someone else was at the bar – the usual.

Robin knocked once, twice, three times before someone came to the door. Curly, in a tee shirt and pyjama bottoms, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed to answer the door even though almost all the lights in the house were on.

"Angela ain't home," he said. He was about to shut the door in her face, but a sob hitched in her throat and he just couldn't.

"Shit," he sighed. He moved aside, letting her through. "She's at Mathews'. Can't you go there?"

Robin shook her head vehemently. "I c-can't. Darrel will find me e-easy." It was hard to talk, holding in tears, but greasers didn't cry. Especially not in front of other, tougher ones who happened to be your best friend's big brother.

"Shit. Shit," Curly repeated.

But she couldn't help it. Darrel, the screaming, grabbing her, Greg, on the ground dead, in the car with her, touching her - _two kids who did what?_ Did nothing. Did nothing because it was most likely her fault anyway, and oh god she was going to throw up.

She heaved, holding her mouth.

"Don't do it on the fuckin' floor," Curly shouted, half pushing, half helping her to the bathroom. He let her in alone so she could kneel down in front of the toilet and bring up the water she'd had for dinner. There was no breakfast, no lunch, and soon it was just dry heaving and stomach acid and gut-wrenching pain. Her throat burned, and the tears wouldn't stop. She didn't even know what she was crying about anymore.

From somewhere in the house she heard Tim yell, "Who's here?"

Curly's voice came from right beyond the bathroom door – he was waiting for her. The idea helped her grab a strip of toilet paper and wipe her eyes up with it.

"Robin Curtis," he said. "Angela's little friend."

Footsteps. Curly backed away from the door.

"What's she doin' here?" Tim asked.

"Lookin' for a place to hide out from the sounds of things."

Silence. Then – "Give her Angel's room for the night. She ain't gonna be back 'til tomorrow night at least."

He walked away. Robin flushed the toilet, rinsed her mouth in the sink, pretended like she hadn't been crying and puking and eavesdropping when she came out of the bathroom and faced Curly again.

"Angela's room. You know where it is."

And he left her there, in the hallway by herself.


	4. The State of Dreaming

_Short chapter this time around. Not super proud of this one, but I felt like I was taking the rape issue way too lightly in her life, so I wanted to fix that up a little._

* * *

_I live my life inside a dream, only waking when I sleep  
I would sell my sorry soul if I could have it all_

Robin watched the sun rise, slow and lazy over the roofs of unkempt houses. Smoke circled around her from the cigarette clenched between her fingers, the one she stole from someone's denim vest hanging over a kitchen chair.

She didn't sleep a wink. Her eyes burned from being tired, watered when she rubbed them, but she hadn't been able to even close her eyes, lying over the covers of Angela's bed. In the room beside she listened to Curly masturbate then start to snore; Tim's room was in the basement and the light was on all night, but she didn't hear a thing.

Darry was going to kill her for hitting him, even if it didn't hurt – which it probably didn't. The gang didn't call him Superman for nothing, and there was hardly one hundred pounds behind her swing.

Shirtless and in a pair of blue jeans, Tim Shepard came out through the metal screen door and took a seat beside her on the concrete. She tried to be discreet, watching him out of the corner of her eye; he really did have a great body, lean but solid and defined. To her surprise, it was covered in more than just scars – intricate green lines covered his chest, making patterns of oceans and suns, moons and birds and a few nautical elements. There was even a small elephant, standing proud even with its tusks cut. Beautiful pictures that he kept covered underneath shirts and jackets. She'd never seen anyone up close with tattoos before; her father had told her that only criminals got them, to mark themselves to others or something like that, but she liked Tim's. They didn't look criminal at all.

"You want a ride home?" Tim asked through a mouthful of smoke.

_Yes._ "No, I'll walk."

Tim put his hand on the back of her neck, squeezed; she shivered. It hurt, but goosebumps erupted across her skin, pleasant and sensitive.

"Stay tough, kid."

This time she did look at him. "Who told you?"

He grinned. It looked alien on his face – he wasn't the smiling type. "No one had to tell me."

**x x x**

Robin took the long way home. She walked in the weak sunshine, already warm on her face, with the feel of Tim Shepard's hand still on her skin. It wasn't an entirely comfortable feeling, but she didn't try to shake it. Not this time.

Cars rushed by her; men and women in collared shirts and pantyhose hurried by, late for work, early for meetings, paying no notice. When she passed the DX station she saw Steve, in his blue button-up and jeans, changing the oil of a truck in the garage. He was already spotted with the black stuff, on his hands and his pants, and one of his curls was out of place. When Steve Randle was working on a car, nothing else mattered to him, not even his perfect hair. He had a real passion, like Ponyboy had for stories and dreams, or Sodapop had for life itself. Darry probably has passions but he didn't share them with her.

There was a newspaper on a bus stop bench. Robin felt she was far enough from the DX that it was safe to sit down and take a look. It was today's paper, probably fallen out of some paperboy's bundle. Sprawled across the front page was two big black and white photographs with the bold headline: **TWO BOYS SHOT IN GANG FIGHT**.

The article below named no names besides George Campbell and Greg Wallace. There was no mourning, just a warning that gang violence was on the rise, and the east side was dangerous territory – a war zone right here in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Nobody mourned greasers, not in newspapers or on television. They weren't upstanding citizens, they weren't soldiers. The police had no leads and by the sounds of things, they weren't looking for them.

Robin threw the paper back down and took a shortcut through the park. She didn't much feel like being out in the sun anymore.

Inside the house, Ponyboy was on the couch reading from a book. He looked up when his sister came in, closed the book, put it on the coffee table while Robin kicked off her shoes.

"Where were you all night? Darry about went nuts."

"Just out," she said airily. "Is he mad?"

Pony shrugged. "More worried than anything." There was a sharp tone to his voice that Robin didn't like. It said, _if I'd hit Darry then run off, I'd be at a boys' home so fast it'd make my head spin, but not you. You're baby sister Robin. _She flinched a little at it.

"I didn't mean to."

Ponyboy stood up, shoulders stiff. "Yeah, well it don't matter. Nothing's gonna happen to you anyway."

"Something happened to me –"

"What?"

He was angry, but not unreasonable. Ponyboy had his head screwed on better than anyone she knew.

"It's about that kid, the one that got killed."

Ponyboy's shoulders slumped. He spoke soft and quiet now. "Everyone knows, Rob. That you slept with Greg. Angela Shepard told me."

"W-what?" Robin's eyes grew wide, stunned. "I didn't … that's not how it happened!"

"Just don't let Darry know, okay? He'd go crazy."

"I didn't have sex with Greg!"

"Don't yell, Rob."

"I _got raped_, Ponyboy!"

Robin clapped her hand over her mouth, but she couldn't pull the words back in that hung in the air between them. The night it happened she thought she'd never be able to talk about it again, but now it was spewing out of her mouth everywhere – Steve, Soda, now Ponyboy too. Something inside her was pushing her though; it was more important to be vindicated than to be quiet.

"Keep it to yourself, kid."

Robin spun around. She hadn't even heard Dallas come through the front door, but there he was, in a black t-shirt and a scowl.

"It's done. He ain't comin' back an' there's more important things to worry about now."

Robin's stomach was starting to feel queasy again. It wasn't _done_. It was never going to be _done_ no matter what she said, or anyone else said, or how much better she felt about it only a few hours ago. She stared into his eyes, trying to find some trace of sympathy, but there was nothing. Just a cold hardness, a disinterest. He had a gang war to worry about. Not a little kid.

Robin spun on her heel and stomped off to the bathroom. She held herself together long enough to lock the door behind her, but after that, tears burst from her eyes and her stomach turned over. How could Angela do this to her? That was the first thought to come to mind. How could she go and tell everyone that Robin had had sex with Greg, when she hadn't even confirmed it? Weren't they supposed to be best friends? No secrets, no lies, and no stabbing each other in the back?

Dallas' voice travelled from the living room into her ears. "C'mon Ponyboy. Sodapop wants to talk to you, 'bout the fight tomorrow night."

Were they fighting the River Kings? The idea of her brothers in a rumble with people who wore purple jackets and thought a fair fight meant hiding blades inside their sleeves made her sick all over again.

When she was sure the house was empty, Robin weakly pulled herself up off the bathroom floor and into Darrel's bed, the closest bed to the bathroom. Never in a million years could she have imagined her life spinning so out of control in a matter of minutes.


End file.
